Rotting
by Ydarissep
Summary: Guilford Norman Staverlyn was once a man with potential, a man with power and promise. All of that was swept away in one fell swoop of human curiosity. Now he wanders the land as an undead monstrosity and the Banshee Queen Sylvanas's most powerful tool.
1. The Shade

** Rotting **

Part I: "The Shade"

It was a dark and lonely night in the kingdom of Stormwind, the center of the human civilization on Azeroth. The city was a grand place with five different districts and a castle. The ruler of the kingdom was absent, leaving his young son to take the throne in his stead. To those who lived in the city, they knew what chaos was; it happened on a daily basis. Tonight was no exception.

In one district of the city – Old Town – there is a tavern. It is referred to as "The Pig" but is really called "The Pig and Whistle." It was comfortably placed in the edge of the district between the SI:7 headquarters and entrance to the district from the Dwarven District and castle.

Within this tavern, the only sources of light were the flickering candles which barely kept the place lit enough for someone to see anything. It was almost closing time for them, and the only one left was the apprentice of the owner. His name was William Jagstone. He was a young man, about in his early twenties. His hair was auburn and pulled behind his ears with sideburns that melded into a beard and mustache. His face was clean and unblemished except for an X shaped scar on his cheek. His eyes were a brilliant emerald green and flicked with youthful liveliness.

His back was to the door of the dimly lit bar, a cloth in one hand and a mug in the other as he cleaned it. He placed it on the shelf as he finished and slowly started to turn around, jumping as he saw a figure sitting at the counter.

He was frozen with surprise, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up-straight and the color draining out of his face. The figure was covered in black robes and a large hood that shadowed his face. What little that could be seen was not all that clear. He had a flat chin with dark hair covering it. His forearms rested on the counter with his gloved right hand and bandaged left hand. The bandages weren't at all in a quick or messy manner at all. They wrapped around the individual digits as well as the palm and disappeared into his sleeves.

The right hand rose up and tapped at the counter with the forefinger, the young man behind the wooden slab turning quickly, grabbing the mug he just cleaned, filling it from the tap of the keg and resting it gently but shakily in front of the cloaked figure. The hand of the finger that had tapped the wood moved over to the handle of it, pulled it up to the hood and slowly tilted it back.

It took a several seconds for the shadow to finish drinking, resting the glass back on the slab and slowly standing, turning and walking to the exit. Despite his fear, young and naïve William was not going to let this stranger leave without paying his tab…

"H-hey! Come back! I can't be giving out free drinks! The boss will get mad at me…" Half-way to the door, the figure stopped in his tracks. William stood there, his entire body trembling, waiting for the man to make his move. A dull hiss came from the apparition, the bandaged hand moving up to the hood to slowly pull it down, a wave of dark hair tumbling out from it and draping over his shoulders.

"You should have just let me walk away." Within the blink of an eye, the figure had disappeared and re-appeared behind William, the wrapped hand covering over his mouth with the fearful character behind him. With just his mouth covered, William just realized a terrible and disgusting odor – the scent of rotting flesh. The head of the figure leaned in so his face was right beside the would-be barkeeper's and it was obvious what that stench was coming from.

This thing that had assaulted William wasn't human by any means. It was dead – flesh ghostly pale, skin ripped from the cheeks to show the sinew of muscle and jaw-bones. The face had several holes littered about it. They were small, though, so could not have been from a projectile of sorts. In place of the eyes, were two dimly glowing, magenta orbs which seemed to flicker erratically and intensely.

Suddenly, something intruded Williams's mouth. It felt like an almond but was easily able to pass through his throat and slowly fall into his gullet. He even heard the splash of it hitting the acids in his stomach and felt it through a wave of incredible pain that shot through his entire body from that area. He attempted to scream, but it was muffled by the semi-thick bandages.

"Shh, Shhh… No need to alert any near-by guards…" The undead whispered rasply into William's ear, and it did nothing to calm his nerves. Another shockwave of pain coursed through the young man's body, nearly sending him into unconsciousness. Suddenly, the hand left his mouth and the figure had moved back to his original spot. Without the support, William fell over and started to cringe and whimper in pain. The figure had his gloved hand up, middle and forefinger pressing to the thumb.

"Don't worry. You bore me now…" The fingers suddenly snapped, and William's belly blew open, throwing the intestines, liver, kidneys and what remained of the stomach in all directions. All of this gore seemed to completely avoid the unnatural man but coated the floor, walls and even some of the ceiling with the young man's blood and organs.

On the outside of the bar, several guards stood by the door. Suddenly, one of them kicked in the door, and the others rushed in with their rifles in hand. They saw the gore, the lifeless body and smelled the foul odor, but the cause of all of this was nowhere to be seen…

On his way towards the way out of this district, the re-hooded figure dragged his feet along the ground lazily, his arms barely swaying, his shoulders rolling with every step. His destination was the castle. His target was a noble woman, one that was not of the grandest of statuses but was tolerated by the young prince and served as an ambassador from the northern lands of Lordaeron – or what was left of it.

For the glory of his Queen, he would not fail on this assignment…


	2. One Man Army

** Rotting **

Part II: "One Man Army"

The castle was just ahead of the robed figure as he stood on the edge of the canals with his back facing the water. Two guards sat on both sides of the high arc entrance, each sitting in a crude wooden chair in front of equally crude tables. The group on the right was playing a sort of card game; the ones on the left were recalling a humorous story of a battle which was recently fought over supplies in the northern lands.

Their armor was smooth and white, gilded with some sort of cobalt or azure coloring perhaps. Each had a sword sheathe on their waist and a small hexagonal shield on their backs. Their tabards were a blue themselves, with a golden lion's face on the front and lined with gold threads.

As the shadowy character started to walk forward, the guards caught the sound of his heavy boots scratching the cobblestone walkway. They stopped what they were doing and stood and one of them – the first on the left – drew his sword from its sheath and held it up to point it to the stranger.

"Halt, you! No access without an audience!" The man's voice boomed and the other guards followed his example, drawing their swords and holding their shields up. The figure continued to walk slowly, rising up its bandaged hand. Slowly the bandages began to come undone through some force of magic, the cloth started to swirl around until the hand was completely uncovered. Runes that glowed a lavender hue littered what was visible of his arm. The finger tips - though completely bare of flesh – were also covered with small runes of different designs.

His forward striding was not hampered by the ones in his way, his sleeve burning away to the shoulder to reveal the thin arm which followed the phenomenon of the runes covering it. With a right-to-left slash, he disappeared and then reappeared behind the guards, stopping just under the archway with his hand at his side, the boney and pointed tips dripping with crimson liquid. After a couple seconds, all four of them began to spew fountains of blood from different areas of their bodies before toppling over.

The inside of the Keep was large and open, a ramp leading up the middle to the throne. The floor had an azure carpet leading up to said throne, the walls high with glorious white-washed stone walls and floors decorated with marble. Large lamps hung from the ceiling, which allowed no shadows to be known in this main corridor.

"By day, in the King's chambers… By night, high-tower…" The man breathed in rasply, raising his left arm up to grab his right bicep. His knees buckled as he squatted down, his head ducking low. He was suddenly cloaked in a veil of darkness and jumped up, whatever shadows left behind him trailing like a tattered cloak. He seemed to slam into the ceiling as he reached it, but was absorbed into it and traveled through the stones.

He flew through the walls in this form, and quickly arrived at his destination. He burst through the floor of the high tower, and was greeted with the visage of a woman. She was wearing dark-brown robes which served as her night-gown, her hair black as oblivion with a face that was stern and serious.

The dark spirit flowed around in the corner of the room, slowly re-shaping itself in the form of that dead man. His robes opened up to show a sarong around his waist that went down to his feet, and a bare chest which was pale and covered in holes similar to his face. A few ribs were showing through the shriveled skin, and his hidden face was once again visible. His right arm seemed to be fairly ordinary, in contrast to his left and heavy boots covered his feet, the steel on the heel and toes were spiked.

The woman sat in a high-backed chair with her legs crossed, behind a table with two teacups and a pewter teapot on the surface. Beside the table was another high-backed chair, an almost exact copy as her's.

"I've been waiting, Guilford. I know what you are here for. I'm sorry to say, taking my life will not be as simple as killing a normal human." She spoke softly but sternly, her petite hand moving to grab her cup and slowly pull it up to her lips. She gave a sip and rested it back down, licking her top lip to get any remnants.

With another sweeping slash, the ghoul – now identified as Guilford – whipped his hand to the side and the blood from before splattered on the ground. He refused to speak, but instead moved his left hand up to the left side of his face to hide that half of his visage.

"You want to live again, don't you?" She did not wait for him to speak. "I can make that dream a reality." A sly grin crept upon her thin lips, her legs uncrossing so she could slowly stand up. Without fear, she took small steps to the dead being and stopped in front of him. Her own hand came up to gently stroke the fleshless cheek which was still exposed, her gaze penetrating into the magenta orbs in his empty eye sockets.

Like some mechanical being, his jaw propped open and his head tilted back, his hand falling back to his side. A glowing started to come from his throat, the sickly green color of fel magic slowly growing until it was a visible orb creeping from his gullet. Without a second more of warning, fel fire began to spew from his throat in a heavy torrent like dragon's flame. The room was drenched with it, the woman seeming to be as well.

The flames suddenly stopped and a smoke began to escape from his mouth in place of the flames, his jaw closing back up and a low groan coming from him. A few feet away, the woman stood unharmed and unhampered.

"Oh, come on… You couldn't just die, could you?" Guilford spoke in such an agitated tone. He was so disappointed by this failed attempt and that the woman just wouldn't fall over and die as he wished. The woman raised the hand that was on his cheek before to her mouth to cover it as she let out a low laugh, almost a giggle.

"It wouldn't be fun if I did, Guilford," she spoke surely, as a noble would, so cocky and full of herself. "Now, it's my turn…" The flames that had covered the room began to swirl and twist as they were brought to her free hand, forming a large fireball of the same emerald fire. Without a gesture, the ball shot at him, Guilford's left hand raising up to backhand it up, through the roof and into the nightsky.

"Miss Prestor… The Dark Lady wants you to die. Accept your fate." Both of his hands pointed their fingers forward so their spiky tips were more honed and deadly. He suddenly lunged forward, his left hand coming down to stab at her and his right slashing up to do the same. She avoided these maneuver with ease, taking two steps back to avoid both assaults.

"Too bad, Guilford; I don't want to die now… So kindly, go away." The sound of ripping was heard and a pair of small wings sprouted from her back and moved to cover her form. Guilford continued to slash at the sinew and bones of the wing, tearing holes and defleshing some of the bone.

After a second or two of this torment, the wings pulled back as Guilford opened himself up and she sent her fist to punch him square in the side of the head. He was sent flying and smashed into the wall, leaving an impression, the force of the punch actually quite great despite the woman's petite appearance. She charged then, her wings sinking into the floor, lifting her up to propel her and her feet slamming into the chest of the undead man.

The wall behind him gave way and he was sent flying out of the enclosed room. He mouthed something as he began to descend into the canals far below. He hit the water with a great splash, and slowly sank into the dark depths…


	3. Return

** Rotting **

Part III: "Return"

Lordaeron: The forsaken nation of the far northern lands: Tirisfal Glades, the Plaguelands and the Silverpine Forests. To the northeast of that nation was the gradually recovering sovereignty of Quel'Thalas.

The former lands (Lordaeron) were occupied by three different factions –the Scarlet Crusade, a group of crazed zealots who assault anything and everything; the Scourge, a nearly invincible army of undead beings ranging from patchworked colossi to parasites lead by the Lich King; the Forsaken, a group of Scourge that had freed themselves from the Lich King's iron will and being led by the Banshee Queen, Sylvanas.

The ruined capital, ironically named Capital City, is now the headquarters of the Forsaken. Far under the ruins in the catacombs, the home of this faction resides under the name Undercity. There are several districts in this necropolis. From the tombs of King Terenas behind the main throne room, there are three elevators leading down into the city itself.

The elevators lead to the Trade Quarter. There is a central pillar with the bank and a surrounding ring with a few vendors. On the lowest ring is a small hallway that leads to a larger ring with the auctioneers. In a compass rose to the Northwest is the Magic Quarter with a large ziggurat marking it; to the North East is the Rogue's Quarter with an abnormally large hut reaching up and nearly touching the ceiling of the dome; to the southeast is the Apothecarium where the Forsaken scientists create their own destructive creations; on the southwest is the War Quarter.

Between both entrances to the Apothecarium is a lengthy hallway that leads to Sylvanas' chambers. It is usually full of people awaiting an appointment with the Banshee Queen, but tonight it was rather empty. Sylvanas herself, a woman who was once quite beautiful as an elf, is now the undead leader of the Forsaken. Most of her features are still intact, but her flesh is a dark blue color and her eyes glow red with her rage and lust for vengeance. She was dressed in black robes and a hood that covered her visage.

"Begone, fools!" She spoke harshly at those in her chambers, and they slowly began to leave without any resistance. All left except for Varimathras, the dreadlord advisor to Lady Sylvanas. He was a demon of frightful proportions – horns that reached out of the top of his bald head and curled up, wings that sprouted out of his back that could allow easy flight, clawed hands and dark, fearful armor. He was quite tall – about nine feet – with hooves instead of feet.

After a few moments of waiting, the air in front of Sylvanas and her advisor began to twist, and strands of lightning shot out in all directions but managed to avoid the two. Four large, pitch black hands reached out in a square formation and slowly started to rip apart the space, opening the dark oblivion to her.

Two smaller hands reached out and grabbed the sides of the portal, the left one bandaged and right one with pointed boney fingertips. A heavy boot came out then and slammed against the raised platform, cracking the stone. Guilford's head popped out next, water dripping from his hair which now clung to his face as it covered it. The rest of his body came out in a less dramatic fashion – another boot, a trailing black coat that was opened to show his bare chest.

"It's good to have you back, Guilford." The dead elf smiled as gently as she could, her voice echoing throughout the caverns. The portal behind him closed as he stepped through it, leaving no trace of itself. Guilford fell to his left knee with his right fist coming up to place itself over his heart.

"I-… I have failed, Dark Lady… Forgive me, I beg you." A slight steam began to rise from his soaked locks, a concentrated heat causing the evaporation of the water into steam. His bangs were the first to quickly dry, the magenta orbs that were once his eyes being no longer there.

"You have failed Sylvanas, whelp!" The demon lord spoke with venom in his deep voice. "You are lucky she d-…" Guilford's right hand shot up just as Varimathras began to speak again, and chains shot out of his open palm and wrapped around the demon's chest, wrists and ankles. They didn't cling to him, just hovered in an X formation. He was not able to speak any more through this constriction, but his eyes flared with a deep hatred and malice which only such an unholy beast could have.

"Do not speak to me with such a tone, daemon." The rotting man's head slowly turned to the winged beast, his orbs flaring back into existence within his eye sockets. To prevent any further violence, Sylvanas raised up her hand to indicate a cease. The two continued to glare daggers at each other for several more seconds before the chains shattered and disappeared, Guilford's head returning to stare at the ground in front of his queen.

"Guilford, you did well enough." Her voice had turned into a sort of soft and soothing hymn. "You sent a message that we are not to be trifled with. Despite that she did not die, your mission is complete."

"Thank you for those kind words, Dark Lady." His magenta orbs had gone back to their normal state of a lazy flickering.

"I have another assignment for you. You are needed in the Apothecarium. Derron has requested you personally." Guilford's head rose up at the mention of another name. Derron de Mayus was a long-time associate of Guilford's since he was turned undead, having been the one that assisted him come to terms with undeath and quickly put him to work.

"If you request it, it shall be done. I will finish with my task, and then I will return to the Apothecarium and await my orders. If I have your permission, of course…"

"Of course; you are dismissed, Guilford." With that, he stood back up with a groan, turning around and slowly descending from her platform and entering the hallway. The second he was out of sight, the demon lord let out a roar and slammed his left hoof down on the ground.

"Why do you deal with him? He's a cocky corpse and needs to be put back in his grave!"

"Enough." Her voice retained that softness as she watched the hallway. "I keep him because he gets the jobs done. He doesn't disappoint and does what he must to assure that we prevail. As long as he is one of us, he will continue with that."

"And what if he goes back, hrm? What then? What will you do without your oh so loyal minion?"

"He will serve me in life as he does in death. He would never betray his queen…"


	4. Experimentation

** Rotting **

Part IV: "Experimentation"

Guilford hobbled into the Apothecarium main labs, his metal boots scraping the ground and boney arms swaying along his sides lazily. On the slabs of some of the tables, there were cut-open stomachs of hefty men, their guts showing from the holes. Bones also protruded from the open gut, but were too large to be ribs. There was a head on the beast with one eye stitched close and the other wide open. Thick legs and fat feet would be able to allow it to walk, and three arms – one on the left shoulder – would give it fighting capabilities.

Several tesla coils hung from the ceiling, arcs of electricity shooting off of one another in high enough concentrations to make the air fizzle and hum intensely each time an arc shot off. There was the clank of metal on metal, the undead Apothecaries surrounding the corpse shuffling away quickly. From each of the coils, lightning shot and slammed into the corpse for several seconds before dying away.

"It's alive… It's alive!" All of the Apothecaries laughed and cheered, throwing their rotting fists into the air. The beast pushes itself from the slab and looked around, the one eye shifting around. One voice in particular sounded above the rest in a much deeper and haggard tone. Apothecary Derron stood again the wall, his hand on a lever which activated the coils. He looked rather identical to Guilford, except he had no hair on his head save for a lengthy ponytail in the back. He was bald otherwise.

Guilford himself let out a raspy groan, crossing his arms over his rotting chest. "Having fun, boys?" The cheering of the scientists and alchemists stopped, and they all looked up to see him, standing at the highest level of the steps. He took a few steps down slowly, his heavy open-chest robes slugging along behind him. As he reached ground level, they gave way to him, stepping out of his way and either against the wall, or the Abomination they had created – which could easily devour them.

"To what do we owe this honor, Norman?" Derron gave a toothy grin, showing several teeth that had fallen out and the rest that had rotted away.

"She said you had something for me to do. And She absolutely hates it when I'm bored." There was an obvious tension within the air, but it was not between Staverlyn and Derron; the tension came from the other Apothecaries in the room. They were envious of Staverlyn, having been Sylvanas' favorite.

Suddenly, a phial flew through the air and broke against Staverlyn's back, a groan coming from him in response. There was nothing in it thankfully, but the tension only increased.

"Well, Guilford," said Derron, a couple of seconds later after the phial hit his friend. "There is actually nothing I have to do. As sluggish as you are, we finished with our experiment…" Derron raised up his right hand to wave it over at the abomination. "Perhaps you should go and see your Apprentice's. You haven't been home for a few weeks, and they may be in need of a… Refresher."

Guilford groaned once again, turning around and making his way up the stairs. "Very well then. Farewell." His left hand rose up and slashed downwards, another oval –shaped portal ripping itself into existence. He stepped through it and was engulfed into the oblivion, and it promptly closed back up behind him.

"Daniel! Step forward!" Another apothecary stepped out of the mass and strode forward, in front of Derron, taking a deep bow. In the middle of such a bow, Derron's pointed finger tips came up and sliced through the spine, his knee coming up to smash into his face.

"Never disgrace me again, you mongrel! I will not have your stupidity be an example of what our society is about! Is that understood?" The upper half of the Forsaken groaned and fell back, spewing ichor from its spine. The smash to the face caused the foolish Apothecary to fall into unconsciousness. Unable to answer his master, Derron waved his hands at some others to come over and gather the corpse. "Feed him to the Dark Hounds outside the city… If he wakes up, don't help him."

They nodded and gathered up the two halves of their colleague. Their loyalty to their fellow scientist was obviously dwarfed by how much they feared this man. High Apothecary Derron, having been little mentioned in the breath of any living creature of the Horde – and even some of the Alliance – was indeed a frightful character when he wished to be. He was a shadow priest and an alchemist. Both of those skills are what got him killed, ironically, by a fellow alchemist. He was raised again, retaining much, if not all, of his knowledge of these skills and netting himself High Apothecary within a few months. He was not, however, a slave to the Scourge war machine, so it is shrouded in mystery how he became undead.

After many long moments of silence, he rose up his ichor covered hand and waved it around, the other apothecaries immediately going back to work at their lab tables, their slabs with body parts and fluids. Derron himself turned and went back into another chamber, this one full of cages filled with a few human and animal captives. They were mostly silent, but as he entered the room, the animals began to bark, and the humans began to cry futilely for help.

The abomination which they had created was being lead out by a couple of Apothecaries to the armory to get it some weapons. The ones that had been left behind began to create another disgusting creature…


	5. Apprenticeship

** Rotting **

Part V: "Apprenticeship"

The Magic Quarter, though briefly mentioned before, came into a greater and clearer view. The ziggurat in the center of the chamber held the trainers, the magelings training on the second story open balcony; however, they were mostly hidden by a large, open-mouthed skull that nearly covered the entirety of the balcony. A few reagent vendors stood around on the outside of the ziggurat, their smaller chambers filled with crates and barrels. Across the moat of ichor which separated the outer rings from the inner, there were even more shops for profession masters looking for apprentices.

When looking directly at the ziggurat from the ring, there were two smaller indented platforms. Around the one on the left, four newly reborn Forsaken – two men and two women - stood around, and an elder one stood in the middle. Demon after demon he summoned, as if showing off to the apprentices. To the right side, there was a lone man, etching something into his own circle with charcoal.

Guilford kept along the outer ring, having walked basically all the way across this city on his path. His hands were behind his back, his right hand gripping his left wrist to keep them behind him. He headed to the first circle, stepping through the apprentices and up to the show-off. At the instant he noticed Staverlyn, he frowned deeply and looked over him.

"Can't you see I'm teaching a class, Guilford?" He sounded quite aggravated with this interruption. "Kindly, leave."

"You only demonstrate your power," he spoke quietly, the orbs for his eyes having diminished a bit before he arrived. "You do not allow them to practice for themselves; you don't want them to surpass you. You are afraid of that because then they will have your glory, and you will be forgotten."

The summoner's left eye twitched, the eyeball actually still inside instead of rotting away entirely. "Silence, you insolent fool! This is MY class! These are MY apprentices!" Without warning or cause, the show-boat balled his right hand into a fist and engulfed it in sickly green fel magic, sending it directly at his opponent. "And this is MY power!"

Guilford caught it with his bandaged left hand and the tainted magic of the assault began to waver and wane, slowly beginning to drain from his opponent. As if out of mercy, his other hand shot up and grabbed onto his opponents face, forcing him to the ground.

"First lesson… hand to hand combat." Guilford yanked the man up and into the air, slowly starting to crush the hand, audible popping from coming from the pressured hand. "And to be fair, I'll handicap myself." He released his face and hand, reaching over to his right arm with his left hand and ripping it off, tossing it to one of the awestricken apprentices.

"You are worse than I am, Guilford," said the other. "I will not stand for this insolence! My name is Vincent Duren, and I will put you in your place!" Another fel magic engulfed fist flew at Guilford, which was swiped away in a single motion. Again, a punch was thrown, and again it was swiped away.

"Get inside your opponent's head," Guilford spoke calmly, easily dodging any physical assault. "Piss them off; weaken their defenses." After the fifth or sixth swipe-away, he stepped forward and smashed his head into Vincent's, forcing him back. As a follow up, he raised up his right foot and sent it flying into one of Vincent's knees, kicking the leg back and forcing him to the ground. "Forsaken do not feel pain, but we feel defeat. Make sure to eliminate your opponent completely…"

Vincent fell to one knee as his other gave way, his fists pushing into the ground and his head hanging down. With a quick knee to the face, he flew back and fell over; arms and legs sprawled out as he was unconscious.

"Now… who is next?" He looked around the apprentices, each of them holding some expression of wonder or surprise. "Any of you who want to wield real power, not parlor tricks, raise your hand and cast off your former master!"

Each of the four raised their hands at that moment, the woman whom Guilford gave his arm to stepping forward and offering it to him. He took it, shoved it into the socket, rotated it around and waved his hand in the air. "Come, then, apprentices… we have havoc to wreak." As the power-hungry younglings passed, they spit what little saliva they had in their mouths at their would-be master.

Guilford's hands returned to his back, and he scraped his bony feet along the ground, a groan escaping him as he realized how barely dignified his new apprentices were. They gawked at him as if it was the first time they saw something pretty and shiny. It bothered him greatly as he either did not earn their respect, or they realized that they had wasted their time before… perhaps both.

Regardless, a little league of his own would be nice…

An hour or two later, Vincent awoke, pulling himself up and snapping his knee back into place. He was furious, his face contorting in fury and rage. He lumbered around, back to the ziggurat and behind it. He began to walk down a hidden stairway, grabbing onto the wall for support. Revenge was something this fool would seek, especially against Guilford …


	6. Training

** Rotting **

Part VI: "Training"

"You're either trying too hard or not hard enough," said that familiar raspy voice. A discouraged groan came afterwards.

Just outside of the Undercity there was a small triangle in the grass between the main road and side road leading up to the first. Two men and two women stood in a square formation, two pairs with the opposite genders facing each other. All of them wore red robes which didn't do much for the rotting women. They had smooth metal staves out, swinging and twirling, jabbing and lunging for each other. The man in the center of the square looked between the pairs, shaking his head at the progress. His empty eyes showed either boredom or exhaustion.

One of the males suddenly lunged at his female combatant with his stave, but the blow was quickly met and deflected. In a counter-attack, the woman directed their staffs directly downwards and yanked the end of her own up and smacked the man in the chin. He staggered back a couple of steps before attempting to make another swipe at her, but was stopped as the more experienced warlock took a hold of the staff. Try as he might, the former could not yank it from the latter's grip.

"I've got this, dammit," He was obviously irritated. His one eye darted over the elder's form before submitting and releasing the weapon. He took several steps back and onto the cobblestone, out of the triangle. Guilford took his place, holding the staff up in his bandaged left hand, giving it a few twirls before sweeping it down. The bottom end of the staff stood upwards, the top downwards. The right half of his body stood out most, prepared for a quick and easy match.

"Come," he said harshly, his thin, black lips slowly starting to curl into a sort of grin despite the missing flesh on his cheeks. Without further instruction, she gave a wide sweep at his outwards side. His right hand suddenly jerked up, grabbed a hold of the end of her staff and yanked her towards him. He balance was instantly thrown off at the unexpected motion, her entire body lurching forward, and his forehead crashing into her own with a loud crack. After standing there a moment, dazed, she fell backwards and into unconsciousness.

The second pair had stopped to stare at their new master and their fallen fellow apprentice, their eyes shooting in between the two. The second woman was the first to recover, bringing down her weapon to sweep at her partner's leg, causing him to fall over and land on his back. The staff then come up and speared itself downward, stabbing into his chest with the sickening crack of bones, a few globs of ichor escaping his now open chest cavity.

"The three of you that have just lost may go back and learn the basics." He spoke in the most mocking and insulting of tones. The man standing behind Guilford would have been very red in the face had he been alive.

"What was the point of this, then," he yelled out in anger? "You beat down our master, take us from him, then tell us to get out. That's real master-li-…" Before he could finish, the end of the staff was shoved into his mouth. Switching hands, Guilford slowly turned and began to lift the man up with his foot on the free end. The wordy youth was suspended a foot from the air.

"I had hope that you would be better," his tone has softened to almost a sympathetic one, his grin fading slowly. "I don't have time to waste with those that do not deserve it." With a fling, the other Forsaken was sent flying off the end of the staff, landing a few yards away. He attempted to stand himself back up, but found himself too weak to.

"One last thing…" Guilford stepped close again, his hand covering right next to the clean end of the staff. His hand slowly began to wave along the air of that end and a blade began to materialize. It sharpened and gave a point at the end; his weapon had now turned into a reaper of souls, a weapon to be feared. His weapon was now a scythe with a thick blade for better cutting. "There is no place for weaklings in the Forsaken." His orbs flashed back into their place, and his weapon was at the back of the other's neck as his head began to rise. A sudden upwards jerk, and the would-be apprentices head was severed from his body and it began to roll back, off the hill, past the other apprentices.

"M-master…" The victor timidly began stepping up behind her master, holding her head low for hope of not being decapitated as well. As he turned to look back at her, she spoke again. "Won't he just get someone to put his head back on his body for him?"

"No." Guilford shook his head, his rasp seeming to have suddenly lost his voice. Whatever was causing him to have it in the first place was well gone, now. "Akrish is a Soul Eater. The second his head came off, the fool's soul was absorbed into it, and then me." He looked up at the weapon, marveling at it for a moment before tossing the weapon to the side. In a flurry of sparks, the weapon imploded and disappeared into the void. Guilford stepped over the corpse, his hands returning to his back, his feet carrying him back into the main gates of the city.

If only the others could have been much more understanding of combat… Oh well.


	7. A Wondrous Night

Twas a drab, rather boring day in Tirisfal today. Guilford wouldn't have known that, however, as he wasn't there. Yes, he was in Lordaeron, though he was in the southern regions. More specifically, he was visiting the recently renovated city of Hammerfall. Alliance raiders had been an issue for the past couple of weeks, and it was his intention to end such annoyances. Imagine his disappointment when he arrived, to find that his work had already been done.

"That is the price you pay for walking, Guilford," One of the guardsmen gave as best a chuckle as he could in his decrepit state. His face had borne many scars in his years, though what was there when he was alive and what was just rotting was almost totally indistinguishable. His armor was old and rusted; obviously it had gone several years without being maintained. Guilford looked at him with those empty eye sockets, shrugging.

He looked upwards as a breeze caught his open robes. The sky above was a deep blue, the sun having fallen behind the mountains to the north. Clouds drifted lazily across the broad sky. Occasionally a bird or two would flutter past, but given that a majority of the highlands was devoid of trees, the only birds here were further to the south along the shore or higher in the sky, using their sharp sense of sight to hunt down anything small.

Turning towards the south-east, he saw a small amount of smoke rising from the hills. Perhaps it was an encampment, or the hidden camp of Refuge Pointe. There was no way of telling at this distance. Having suddenly felt disinterest, he began wandering inwards past the gates, the mounted guards allowing him passage without so much as another word. The walls of this former internment camp were being repaired, filling holes caused by the most recent raid – which was about a week ago, he guessed.

Hammers banged on anvils as water hissed in reaction to the super-heated metals being dunked into their troughs. Repairs were well underway and by the time the next attack came, Guilford would be at the back of the city's defenders, ready to decimate the raiders. He made his way up a dirt-paved hill towards the northernmost part of the town, finding himself face to face with The Black Bride. This mounted Forsaken was as beautiful as any undead could be, taking great pleasure in her own appearance for some arbitrary reason. Guilford guessed that it was to unsettle the enemy, but he never cared enough to ask.

He treated her with the same disinterest a man would treat the remains of a bug on his boots – a minor annoyance, but one that could easily be brushed off. She saw him moving forward and tugged at the reins of her deathcharger, the undead horse moving to follow her direction. She offered a smile, one to show that all of her teeth were still intact, if a bit yellowed.

"Ah," she began, "My Lady's protégé. To what do we owe the honor, esteemed Warlock?" Her tone was part-mocking, part-exasperated, and entirely devoid of any emotion to hint at pleasured by his arrival. He grunted in acknowledgment, but otherwise gave her no answer. Instead, he moved towards the table where a group of higher-ranked Forsaken stood around a map, indicating to points that would be best for a revenge raid.

"I don't like being ignored," she said, he tone rising in pitch. A sudden thought came to Guilford's mind of him being ripped apart by a banshee wail, the very kinetic force of the shriek tearing his flesh asunder if he did not act quickly enough. He shook his head and turned to look over his shoulder at her as she came trotting back to the table.

"I don't care," he said. The empty sockets of his eyes did not burn with the usual magenta orbs she had last seen him substituting as actual eyes. She pondered at this, but decided to let him continue. "_Our_ Lady has commanded me here to combat the threats mounting on us. 'Why do they need me?' I asked her. 'Surely The Black Bride – a banshee, no less – is able to handle those raiders.' Our Lady thought I was taking the situation too lightly, and now I am here." He turned back to the table, the abysses of his eye sockets drinking in the map and proposed battle plans outlined upon it.

If her cheeks could redden from indignation, they would have. However, she decided to keep her mouth shut. If she spoke out against the Banshee Queen, she would be as good as dead (well, permanently anyway). Instead she sighed and lowered herself from her mount with the aid of an attendant and skulked towards the table.

For the next three hours of day and the whole of the night, they spoke of battle plans. As Guilford had gathered, these raids were often done in the earliest part of the morning when the sun was still rising and cloaked their advance using the shadows of the southern mountains. Despite the diligence of the watchmen, it was hard to imagine that anything could get near the town. Unless, one lieutenant suggested, they were aided by a spell-slinger of some description. Upon mention of such aid, Guilford's eyes literally lit up.

"More than likely," Guilford said, lounging back in a chair at the far end of the table. Until now, he had remained silent, his fingers forming a bridge with which he could rest his chin upon. The magenta orbs of his eyes looked about at the members sitting at the table. They needed very little light to see, but the few lamps that were present were set to their lowest levels and cast flickering shadows upon their faces. "A mage or even a warlock would be able to cloak their advance. They could descend upon us like wolves at just the right time with such aid."

Grunts and nods of agreement followed his statement. After all, it made sense, but what didn't is the pattern of their attacks. Was there something ceremonial about attacking just before morning, then disappearing into the hills? Guilford recalled a reading of a hypothesized spell works when he was still alive. It suggested that some magic – such as illusion and necrotic – worked best during the nights, wherein others – like healing and shield – worked best during the day. This made sense, but he had disregarded it at the time. Perhaps there was some truth to it, but he was still skeptical. Then again, when wasn't he?

"If that is true," The Blade Bride began, her clawed fingers digging into the wood of the table, "then we are dealing with a much more dangerous enemy. We've detected no residual magic anywhere nearby, much less anything to indicate a sorcerer." She opened her mouth to continue, but stopped suddenly. She thought for a moment and continued as she realized Guilford's eyes were boring into her. "Granted, it is the most likely assumption we have. So what do you suggest?" Everyone turned to the esteemed wizard. A smile formed upon his dead, cracked lips.

"We wait," he said. Despite the protests of several of the lieutenants, the Black Bride nodded with a defeated sigh. After the gathered had finished their bickering, Guilford stood from the table. "We will wait for them to attack again. And when they do, we will be ready. Form battle ranks immediately, but leave the orcs and tauren out of this. We won't need their help. The trolls, too. We will do this for the Dark Lady and we will show that we are to be reckoned with."

Those that were present felt unsettled, but oddly inspired. With just the Forsaken guards, their number was less than two-hundred battle-ready warriors. The raiding forces were typically twice that size, if not larger. The Dark Lady's personal warlock seemed confidant in this defense, and his wisdom was not to be questioned. Still… Something was definitely wrong. He seemed to believe that an attack was happening at sunrise, which gave them only a few scant hours to prepare. This gave them a small margin for error.

A very small margin for error.


End file.
